


Una Mattina

by CathrineMcCord



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, You can see him too? - Promt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CathrineMcCord/pseuds/CathrineMcCord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Welcome back.”</p><p>He hears himself saying, though he knows it's useless.</p><p>He's speaking to an empty room.</p><p>_______________________________</p><p>Written for the "You can see him too?" kind of Promt!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Una Mattina

**Author's Note:**

> Una Mattina - Ludovico Einaudi (Intouchables OST)
> 
> Written for this Promt: http://sillyunicorntime.tumblr.com/post/16855009431/oh-god-i-just-had-the-most-depressing-thought-ever
> 
> Inspired by this picture: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/16911380121/fluffluffluff-sorry-tumblr

**Una Mattina**

 

“John ...”

 

Sherlock stands in his living room, all black coat, blue scarf, unruly hair and piercing gaze.

 

It's been three years.

 

John merely sights.

 

He expected this.

 

“Welcome back.”

 

He hears himself saying, though he knows it's useless.

 

He's speaking to an empty room.

 

This is what happens every time Mary is not around.

  
His mind starts playing tricks on him, resulting in imaginary Sherlock following him everywhere he goes.

 

This is the reason why he still keeps his cane in the corner at the front door.

 

Three years, moving, a exiting job and a fulfilling relationship didn't change anything.

 

As soon as he is alone … Sherlock.

 

He doesn't even think about it as going insane any more.

 

He knew it was going to happen as he send Mary of to her weekend trip just a minute ago.

 

He is used to it.

 

So he doesn't say anything else than welcome back, he just gets up and makes himself a cup of tea while imaginary Sherlock keeps trailing behind him apologizing.

 

 

//

 

 

The newest theory about how Sherlock could have faked his death doesn't sound as ridiculous as the ones his mind has made up before.

 

It's quite brilliant actually.

 

But that might only be because his latest version of Sherlock is quite convincing itself.

 

Strong clear voice telling him how he made it off the roof alive, all lively as he just can not sit still in the chair opposite John, laying bare the exiting story of the past three years in front of him.

 

His imagination is getting better.

 

Or he is getting more insane by the minute.

 

“Amazing.”

 

The word escapes his lips when Sherlock's finished, the breath of the detective hitching from the exhaustion of his quick talking.

 

He really must be getting better at imagining. His previous Sherlock's never showed any physical signs of exhaustion.

 

John laughs at himself and goes to bed early.

 

 

//

 

 

When he wakes up in the morning Sherlock sits on the bed besides him.

 

John asks himself if he would tell him that this is Mary's side and that it is really rude of him to just sit there, if Sherlock wasn't just a product of his imagination.

He probably wouldn't.

 

“You are angry with me.”

 

Imaginary Sherlock sounds tired.

 

John rubs his eyes .

 

Imaginary Sherlock also wears one of his shirts, along with one of his pyjama pants, both way to baggy and way to short. The only thing fitting is the blue dressing gown, the one he always wore three years ago, the one John could never bring himself to throw away, but stored away in the depth of his clothed instead.

 

John thinks he looks ridiculous, but he is also kind of happy that his mind is providing him with some changes for once.

 

“No, it's not really your fault you know ...”

 

Why not answer?

 

He will start talking to him eventually, it always happens the longer he is alone, the longer his mind has time to remember all the things, all the feelings he locks away whenever he is around Mary or others.

 

So he gets up, makes breakfast and spends the rest of the morning talking to Sherlock waiting for the other thing that always happens eventually.

 

Breaking down.

 

 

//

 

 

It happens early this time.

 

John blames it on the new found accuracy of his imagination.

 

“Do you love her?”

 

Sherlock is sprawled on the living room couch, John sitting opposite him, just like the old days. It doesn't matter that it's a completely different flat.

 

But all that normality can't lessen the impact of the question.

 

Until now, whatever nasty trick his mind had pulled on him, whatever it had made Sherlock do or say, Mary was always left out of it.

 

John swallowed.

 

He knows that he doesn't have to answer, he could just walk away, let imaginary Sherlock follow him, change the topic.

 

“You know already, don't you?”

 

John says while getting up, walking the few steps to the window, staring at his own reflection against the night time sky.

 

“No.”

 

The detective sits up straight, steepling his fingers together under his chin, his eyes locking with Johns. That baggy shirt and pants really look ridiculous.

 

“Why would I have gone out of my way to ask you if I did?”

 

At that John bursts into laughter.

 

He can't help himself.

 

It's just all so bloody ridiculous.

 

As if this made-up-by-his-mind version of Sherlock doesn't know exactly how he feels.

 

Doesn't know every inch of his heart.

 

Doesn't know that all that ever filled his heart was him.

 

It's so bloody ridiculous John laughs until his stomach hurts and his legs give in and he just sinks to the floor lying there sobbing instead.

 

He is so tired he couldn't care less about the fact that Sherlock's touch feels warm and real as the detectives lies down on the floor besides him, wiping away his tears.

 

Maybe he is going crazy after all, so why bother?

 

He leans into the touch instead, allows himself to reach out for the ghost in front of him and pretend that embracing Sherlock, is not just in his mind, making him look like an idiot hugging the air.

 

“I love **_you_**.”

 

He mumbles as he buries his nose in the detectives long neck taking in the familiar scent, now overlaid with the smell of his shirt.

 

 

//

 

 

This night Sherlock comes to lie besides him on the bed and they talk about all kind of rubbish, including all the things they never talked about when they still had the chance to. They talk until John falls asleep at dawn, while Sherlock is stroking his hair.

 

He doesn't give a damn any more that all of this feels way to real and that he definitely has gone crazy now.

  
All he can think about is that Mary will be coming home tomorrow and crazy or not, he really doesn't want this to end.

 

 

//

 

 

“It probably is time to come back to Baker Street with me, don't you think?”

 

John gives a huffed laugh at this.

 

Sherlock frowns and squeezes Johns hand lightly.

 

They are both on the couch now, Sherlock leaning up against Johns chest, playing with the doctors hands who has his arms wrapped around the detectives shoulders.

 

“Don't sulk, I really wish I could.”

 

John presses a kiss on top of Sherlock's unruly curls.

 

Before he can form another word he hears the keys turn inside the lock of the front door.

 

Mary is early.

 

He sights and buries his face into Sherlock's neck one last time.

 

“I would have gone anywhere with you back then ...”

 

He mumbles and then gets up swiftly walking into the kitchen without looking back.

 

He can't bear seeing Sherlock disappear right before his eyes as soon as Mary walks in.

 

He doesn't say goodbye either.

 

Would be pointless saying goodbye to a figure of your imagination.

 

So what he does instead is getting the kettle to boil, setting up two cups, waiting for Mary to come into the kitchen and greet him with her shining and gender smile that he's grown quite fond of.

 

She doesn't come in for a long time though.

Silence sets itself over the flat and John grabs the mugs and makes his way into the living room, the sudden quiet nagging at him more than he is ready to admit.  
  
“Mary, dear, how was your tri-”

 

John stops in his tracks.

 

There, on the couch, on his and Mary's couch, who is, by the way standing in the door to the living room, still sits his trick-of-mind version of Sherlock Holmes.

 

So he's gone crazy. Completely and for all.

 

But he will be able to do this. He will be able to combine the two of them, reality and imagination.

 

Because this is what he's been doing for three years now. Going crazy while convincing everyone, including himself, he was not.

 

John takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the battle in front of him.

 

“You are Sherlock Holmes ...”

 

Mary's voice carries through the room as just a wispier.

 

“Indeed I am.”

 

Sherlock's is nearly going under the noise that the mugs from Johns hands make as they collide with the floor.

 

“Y-you can see him too?!” 

 

Johns voice is high pitched and genuinely surprised. 

 

And then he sees it himself.

 

The black hair that is way shorter than it used to be, parts of it in different shades where the hair dye hasn't washed out fully jet. The small scar on Sherlock's jawline, the roughened hands that look like he has stumbled from one fight into another and his cheekbones that look even more prominent due to him being even skinnier. There is the scarf that is blue but torn and not his and the coat that only resembles the old one in being black, both lying on one of the chairs, too.

 

It was all there, right before his eyes.

 

_You see, but don't observe!_

 

Sherlock had said that to him countless of times.

 

Sherlock who's been dead for three years.

 

Sherlock catching him now as his feet give in.

 

Sherlock who's touch he can feel, warm, vivid, tender … real.

 

John wraps his arms around the detective pressing him as close as he can manage.

 

“I'm so sorry ...”

 

Sherlock breaths into his ear as he pulls his arms tighter around John.

 

“Why didn't you tell me earlier you bloody idiot?!”

 

That's all John gets out before bursting into a mixture of laughing and sobbing, holding on to Sherlock standing warm, vivid, tender and real in the middle of his living room.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
